


To break, burn, blow; and make me new

by MovesLikeBucky



Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020 [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, I did goofy tags since this was for Janth HI JANTH I LOVE U AND UR CRAZY TAGS, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Sensation Play, Some really metaphysical birch trees, Tentacles, Trueform, but it's given by tentacles so is it a hand job? really?, haha literally they're tendrils of light HAHAHA I'M SO FUNNY, implied aftercare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:42:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28491843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: “I am, never have seen you in all your angelic glory.” Crowley winds his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair aimlessly, grin sliding across his face, “Sounds kind of sexy—ow!”That earns him a fully undeserved swat on the stomach. “Foul fiend,” Aziraphale says fondly, snuggling deeper into his arms. “We’d have to be careful, of course, but if you want to see my true visage, I think I’d be amenable to that.”Crowley hooks his finger around Aziraphale’s chin, tilting his head up and catching his gaze. He can’t stop the giddy smile that spreads across his face. “Really, angel?”“Yes,” Aziraphale says, leaning up to kiss him, “But there are a few things we’ll need to do first.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2073915
Comments: 31
Kudos: 145
Collections: 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020, Top Aziraphale Recs





	To break, burn, blow; and make me new

**Author's Note:**

  * For [D20Owlbear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/gifts).



> Day 8 of Blasphemy and the prompt is “That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend / Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.” (Divine Meditations 14; John Donne)
> 
> This time this is for my dear friend Janthony. You are an absolute treasure to me and I want you to know that; my entire 2020 was so much better for having you in it! Thank you for encouraging me, helping mod zines with me, and just like all around being an amazing person AND ALSO for putting this prompt list together <3
> 
> Rock on you crazy monsterfucker you.

Lunch at the Ritz quickly turns into dinner, time floating away, meaningless as it always is to two beings older than the universe. The air is suffused with happiness and relief. Crowley is allowed to stare openly now; to watch Aziraphale’s fingers wrap around his champagne flute, to take in the exact path the crow’s feet trace at the corners of his eyes, to note that his bowtie is just this side of askew1. He revels in the ability to reach out, straighten it gently as Aziraphale pauses his story to beam at him.

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale whispers, for more than just the bow tie.

“S’nothing, angel,” Crowley answers, for more than just the bow tie.

And if Crowley’s fingers linger longer than strictly necessary, it’s no one’s business but his own.

There are things to be said, conversations to be had, but here isn’t the place. Instead they bask in the warm glow of each other’s company. The…well the actual glow, apparently. Aziraphale is emitting a faint dusting of light particles, hazy around his edges as he talks about a televangelist he had the misfortune of possessing.

There’s warmth radiating from him, gentle and welcoming. Crowley can feel the skin on the back of his hands ripple, scales trying to come to the surface. He wants to coil up and bask in the sensation like it’s the glow of a heating lap. Wants to curl up and crawl up Aziraphale’s chest, get pillowed in the divine light of him.

Unfortunately, this isn’t the place for that either, but he files it away anyway.

“Aziraphale?”

“Yes, dear?”

“You’re…uh…you’re glowing.”

“Oh! Heavens,” Aziraphale closes his eyes for a moment and the glow dies down. Crowley is barely able to keep from whining, missing the warmth already. “I do apologize, seem to have lost myself a bit there.”

What follows is something Crowley has seen more times than he cares to examine: the slow inward turn, the twitch at the corner of angelic lips, the tug at the hem of his waistcoat, the smoothing of wrinkles that don’t exist. Aziraphale has carried a fear with him for a long time, one that Crowley knows all too well. The fear of being too much. It takes a different shape from Crowley’s, but it comes from the same place.

It wasn’t that long ago Crowley was still up in the stars, still beholden to Heaven’s rules and regulations. It was stifling, claustrophobic; stay in line or be cast out. Crowley had never been good at fitting in boxes.

Aziraphale, though, had tried his best to embrace his role, to fulfill what they expected of him. And even if Crowley could see the hurt there, every time they put him down, it wasn’t his place to intervene. But now he can at least try, can reach across the table cloth, take Aziraphale’s hand in his. (It fits like it belongs there; it’s always belonged there.) He can twine their fingers together and squeeze Aziraphale’s hand, watch the gesture paint a smile back on Aziraphale’s face.

“Don’t gotta apologize, angel, I like it.”

“You do?”

“Course I do, like everything about you, don’t I?” It’s a bit too close to honest, a bit too close to everything he wants to say. He can feel the heat rise at the tips of his ears, sees confirmation in the way Aziraphale’s eyes twinkle as he leans across the table.

“You are a treasure, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers as he kisses Crowley’s cheek softly. He goes back to his desserts, to his macarons and tiramisu, visibly lighter than he was before. Crowley leans his elbow on the table, content to watch with his chin in his hand. Openly and unabashedly adoring this angel he’s orbited around since Eden, just the way he’s always wanted to.

Aziraphale studies his champagne flute for a moment before turning to Crowley, cheeks dusted with the soft pink of a rising blush. He lifts his glass to Crowley. “Shall we?”

“Another toast, angel?”

“Yes…to new beginnings,” Aziraphale says, wide grin on his face that Crowley wants to swim in.

“To new beginnings, then,” Crowley says, clinking their glasses together, “and to us.”

Aziraphale’s face softens into something thrillingly besotted. He leans in for a kiss, and Crowley meets him halfway, thrilled to be able to share this now, after the end of all things.

“To us,” Aziraphale whispers against his lips and the wide world seems brighter and more beautiful than it ever has.

* * *

The weeks go by after the apocalypse that couldn’t, time fading from season to season. It’s different now; they’re moving forward together, hand in hand. Soft kisses turn more passionate, more desperate and wanting. Quiet nights on the bookshop sofa turn to nights in Crowley’s bed, heated with desire as they explore each other in ways they never thought they would be allowed.

Every moment spent with Aziraphale is one that Crowley treasures. They’re each healing from their own experiences now, and moving forward together into a world that is much kinder to them.

Heaven and Hell never come knocking, no new missions or assignments come in. They settle into retirement and all the trappings that come with it. Aziraphale’s books and knickknacks migrate to Crowley’s flat. Some of Crowley’s more sensitive plants migrate to the windows of the bookshop. Soon enough there are tartan towels in the bathroom, angel wing mugs in the kitchen cupboard, and a bookshelf in the living room right next to the console that holds Crowley’s soul music collection.

Crowley’s favorite bit of new decor though, oddly enough, is right by the front door. Two coat hooks upon which, most evenings, can be found a flash black jacket right next to a camel colored coat from the 1800s. This clear indicator of home, hang up your coat and stay awhile, somehow hits Crowley harder than the rest of it.

Aziraphale is slowly, but surely, coming back out of his shell. Every once in a while, when he’s not paying attention, the glow comes back. Crowley basks in his divinity for as long as he’s able, like a plant chasing the sunlight. Still, without fail, Aziraphale will notice and pull it back in, apologizing as he does despite Crowley’s protests to the contrary. But when everything else is so wonderful, how could he complain?

They tangle in satin sheets every night, eat breakfast at the kitchen island every morning. Some days Aziraphale opens the shop, other days they stay in bed and let the sounds of London provide them with music. Too wrapped up in each other to even try to leave.

It’s a level of intimacy Crowley has never allowed himself, should never have been given to a demon of all things. And this morning, in particular, he’s feeling particularly open and honest. Something about the early dawn, the way the light catches in Aziraphale’s curls, lighting his hair like a halo as he snores softly. Something about the quiet of the still-waking world, the dust motes catching the gentle golden light, the general sense of calm and peace of it all. Something about the serenity of things cracks his black heart open, as he watches the rise and fall of Aziraphale’s chest, tracing his fingers up and down the angel’s arm, stroking lightly and trying not to wake him. 

“Hello, my darling,” Aziraphale slurs out as he reluctantly stirs to wakefulness. Sleep used to not be his purview, but he took to it like a fish to water.

“Hello yourself,” Crowley says softly, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead. He cups the angel’s cheek, strokes a thumb over one of his cheekbones.

“What is it, love?”

“Nothin’, can’t just look at you?”

“Of course, but you know, I can tell when you have something on your mind.”

“Always got something on my mind, angel.”

“You know what I mean, darling, now what is it?”

Crowley flops back down onto his pillows with a heavy sigh. Curse the midmorning and its honesty; should be a law against it. But things that weigh heavily on one’s mind tend to have a way of coming out, and there’s no time like the present.

“Angel, why do you still tamp down your glow around me?”

A look of concern crosses Aziraphale’s features, a furrow to his brow that Crowley wants to kiss away. He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink — just stares blankly ahead without answering. Crowley curses himself for bringing it up, having clearly struck a nerve.

“You don’t have to tell me, s’alright, promise. Just a curiosity more than anything it’s just…I’m drawn to it…the glow, that is. It’s warm and inviting, like a fire in a hearth. Pulls me in and I just want to drift in the feeling. But you always suppress it, and apologize for it when I don’t need you to,” Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand in his, threads their fingers together. “And I just want to make sure that you know that I love you,  _ all _ of you.”

Crowley squeezes Aziraphale’s hand, waits for him to speak. He will eventually; he always does when he gets like this. After what feels like an eternity, Aziraphale starts to breathe again. Deep heavy things; centering breaths, if Crowley had to give them a name. He squeezes Crowley’s hand back, finally turning to face him.

“I love you, Crowley, and the last thing I want is to hurt you. But this ‘glow’, as you call it, is my Grace. It’s inherently holy, and if I hurt you I wouldn’t be able to bear it.”

Crowley thinks back to an argument in a park, words spat with vitriol and anger. He thinks about a tentative passing of a thermos in the Bentley under cover of darkness, a whispered prayer of ‘please don’t leave me’ carried on a weapon of certain doom. Aziraphale has always feared Crowley’s bouts with holiness, feared the things that could cause Crowley’s demise. Why should his own Grace be any different?

“Angel you really think something so quintessentially you could ever hurt me?”

“What do you mean?”

Crowley brings Aziraphale’s hand to his lips, dusts soft kisses along his knuckles, “Love, nothing you could do could ever hurt me physically. Your Grace is a part of you, part of what makes you the bastard angel that I love. We’ve brushed against each other’s essences before, when we traded corporations, and it didn’t hurt me then. When you’re glowing it’s like…it’s like something in it is calling me home, home to  _ you _ , angel.”

Aziraphale smiles at this, leans in and kisses Crowley like a promise before nestling in against Crowley’s chest. It may just be a guess, but Crowley is certain — nothing of Aziraphale could ever hurt him in any way that he wouldn’t welcome with his entire heart.

“I’m just so happy these days, darling,” Aziraphale sighs as he wraps his arms around Crowley tight. “Happier than I’ve ever been. I guess it’s just all a bit too much for my corporation to hold. I’m scared one of these days I’ll just burst out of it.”

“So…” Crowley starts, treading lightly, unsure himself of what he’s about to ask for, “Why don’t you? Just burst out of it.” He doesn’t need to see Aziraphale’s face; he feels the incredulous look right there against his skin.

“Crowley? You cannot be serious.”

“I am, never have seen you in all your angelic glory.” Crowley winds his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair aimlessly, grin sliding across his face, “Sounds kind of sexy— _ ow!” _

That earns him a fully undeserved swat on the stomach. “Foul fiend,” Aziraphale says fondly, snuggling deeper into his arms. “We’d have to be careful, of course, but if you want to see my true visage, I think I’d be amenable to that.”

Crowley hooks his finger around Aziraphale’s chin, tilting his head up and catching his gaze. He can’t stop the giddy smile that spreads across his face. “Really, angel?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, leaning up to kiss him, “But there are a few things we’ll need to do first.”

* * *

There’s ground rules to be set; failsafes that Aziraphale wants to put in place that will pull him back to his corporation with a word. There’s rearranging to be done the day of - the living room furniture is relocated, leaving the cavernous space empty and echoing. Aziraphale frets, pacing back and forth.

“Wear a hole in the concrete that way, you know.” Crowley is leaning against the far wall, watching Aziraphale putter about. It’s not fully clear if he’s apprehensive or if he’s excited, but Crowley is hoping for the latter.

“Right, sorry, dear boy, it’s just…well, I’m a bit nervous.” He worries at the ring on his little finger, anxious energy palpable even from across the room. Crowley crosses the distance to him, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, pulling him in until their foreheads are pressed together.

“Angel if you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to.”

“No! No, I do, it’s just been such a long time. I want you to see me, as I am. The fact that you want to, my darling, what a precious gift that is.” Aziraphale strokes his thumb along Crowley’s cheek, gazing at him as one gazes upon a cathedral ceiling - with awe and reverence that shouldn’t be given to a demon.

Crowley leans in and kisses him, a soft reassurance before they begin. He can feel the warmth radiating from where their lips press together, a soft suffusion of sensation that prickles along his skin, gooseflesh in its wake. It seeps over him like bathwater, flows down into the heart of him. Aziraphale’s hands are on his face, possessive and strong. He opens his eyes, only to snap them shut again at the blinding light that meets him. The warmth builds and builds, feels like a supernova exploding in his living room, burning him to ashes on the wave of it. 

It’s too much, overwhelming brightness and heat pressing into him, filling all of the crevasses of his soul.

“Gosh.”

That’s all Crowley has the mind to say as the heat reaches a white hot intensity and he loses consciousness completely.

* * *

Crowley awakes on a forest floor, dark and damp. Dirt and twigs stick in his hair, under his clothes, making him itch. He sits up and lets his eyes adjust to the low light, trying to discern how he got here from his flat in London.

He’s surrounded by trees. Birch trees, more specifically. Pale wood with gnarled bark that is reminiscent of eyes. They go on forever in every direction he turns, and he has the distinct feeling he’s being watched by them. Scrutinized and appraised in some weird way. He shivers at the cold air, but starts walking, no real destination in mind.

There’s no moss to indicate his position, to tell him which way is North. There are stars in the sky, a constant anywhere, but they aren’t in the same patterns as the ones he knows. He’s sure these particular star patterns don’t line up with anywhere on Earth; and he would know, he’s memorized all the charts — wrote the book on them, in fact.

As he walks, the air gets warmer. The slowly-climbing temperature is almost unnoticed, but snakes are very in tune with the temperature of their surroundings, even when they’re wearing a human suit. He hears a jingling, like church bells, but they sound far away, perhaps underwater. Muted and almost inaudible. Not having any better ideas, Crowley ducks into the trees, following the sound of these bells. They almost sound like they’re calling his name, ‘Crowley!’, ‘Crowley!’, spoken like a lover and held in the chimes.

He gets closer, the sound becoming less garbled and more clear. A harmony of chimes and ringing that lull him into relaxation, put his mind at ease. The eyes on the birch trees seem to be changing, shifting to point directly to him, tracking his movements. The branches catch on his clothes, but less like an accident and more like a caress.

From between the trees he sees wisps of golden light. Four of them, winding languidly through the trees and approaching him. It’s not long before he figures out the bell chimes are coming from these, each with its own tone, its own group of notes, creating a melody out of themselves as they move through the air.

They swim around him, flowing around his body yet barely touching him. But they follow, keep winding around him every which way. One of them brushes past his hair, another along his fingertips. A particularly bold one bumps his stomach and runs up his chest, loops around his neck before parting from his body.

“Odd little things, aren’t you?” Crowley says, feeling like he should say something to them. They’re awfully friendly, after all. And they leave a familiar scent in the air, bergamot and book dust, just a bit of cedar.

One of them takes the lead, wrapping around his wrist and becoming more sturdy, light made solid and firm. It pulls him along the path as the others solidify, glowing ropes of light curling around his chest, tracing his arms and winding around his calves.

The eyes on the trees are starting to glow in golds and blues, staring more intently as they do. Crowley feels remarkably seen, and more so, remarkably okay with that. The wisps (now more akin to tendrils) continue to get bolder. One of them wiggles up his sleeve, under his coat. It loops around his shoulders, pushes the jacket off and into the dirt. Another pushes his sunglasses away, and he’s vaguely aware of them clattering to the ground behind him. The third pulls on his scarf, sliding it off his neck easily. The feel of the fabric against his skin makes him shudder. 

The tendrils keep petting him, spurring him forward, winding and twining to the point that he’s sure they must’ve been joined by a couple of more, until he sees a speck of light through the trees, brighter than anything that exists in the known universe.

It’s oddly familiar, in a way that Crowley can’t place. Something about it beckons him forward, even as the tendrils keep pulling at him, pulling him to this light. The eyes on the trees glow even brighter as he gets closer, blurring together, a haze of wood and light and darkness as he notices the light is in the shape of a man. But not just any man.

“Aziraphale?” 

Seemingly in slow motion, the light turns to face him. It stretches out its arms, warm and welcoming as Crowley approaches. Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley and light radiates out, engulfing both them and the forest in a white-out of divine brilliance.

The Holy burn of Grace is cancelled out by the fierce flames of Aziraphale’s love, a precipice of pain and pleasure alternating at a fever pace. Crowley wants to scream out in agony, wants to scream out in ecstasy; he can’t quite decide between the two. He settles for riding the current, letting the warmth of Aziraphale’s Grace wash over him, ebbing and flowing like the tides. Resigns himself to drift to wherever this is going.

He can feel the tendrils wrapped around his wrists and ankles, holding him steadfast and tight, keeping him still. They shift and squirm, brush against his skin like a soft-burning caress. Crowley closes his eyes and breathes deep; bergamot and book dust and cedar, wrapping his senses.

The brightness fades, becomes a dull whiteness instead, like a freshly painted room with no windows. Where the paint is so bright and so fresh that you can’t see the crease where floor meets wall meets ceiling. The being of light that he recognizes as Aziraphale stands across from him, somehow still managing to look nervous despite being etched from mere firmament.

“Hello, dear,” Aziraphale whispers, sound followed by the jingling of bells and the sound of birdsong. The wisps release Crowley’s limbs, twirl and twist through the air as they rejoin Aziraphale, swirling around him before dissolving into the light of him.

“Wow…” Crowley can only stare, dumbstruck, as Aziraphale’s form shifts and changes in front of him.

His wings fold out, four bright and shining things, feathers tipped in gold. They’re dotted with eyes that seem to kaleidoscope through every color of the rainbow, from blue to green to gold before circling back again. There’s the faint and shimmering image of the head of an eagle, a lion, and an ox; faint glows of suggestion that seem to shift out of visibility if Crowley focuses too long. 

“It’s…it’s a bit odd, you seeing me like this,” Aziraphale whispers with clear joy echoing through every chime, “But I must admit it’s quite freeing. I’m not…I’m not hurting you, am I?”

There’s an anxious energy laced through the words, painting every bit of Aziraphale’s current features. But he’s ethereal and beautiful and Crowley has never in his entire long existence seen anything quite so heavenly as Aziraphale appears to him now. Aziraphale has trusted him with this, with seeing this side of himself.

“No…you could never hurt me,” he steps closer, entwines his hands in what on any other day would be Aziraphale’s hands, brings the shining and glowing light to his lips for a kiss. It stings his lips like fire, but immediately cools like ice. “See? Perfectly fine, more than fine.”

“Wily old serpent,” Aziraphale says as the tendrils return, extending from his body and running through Crowley’s hair, wrapping around his wrists once again. “I’m so happy, darling.”

“Some would say you’re glowing.”

Aziraphale scoffs at him, “Yes, some might. It’s just… Crowley, I love you so much, it’s so hard to keep it in. Thank you, for doing this with me.”

“Nothing to thank me for, angel.” There’s a tendril caressing his cheek and Crowley leans into it, into the love and devotion he can feel tangibly suffusing the room. He gazes at Aziraphale in awe, thinks again on how lucky he is to have this now, after so long. “You’re beautiful…”

“My darling,” Aziraphale sighs as the tendrils find the edge of Crowley’s shirt, just barely poking underneath to touch skin, “I think I should quite like to have you, if you’d let me.”

Crowley tilts his head, presses a kiss to the tendril near his face and smirks at the way it shudders when he does. “I think you already know the answer to that question.”

“Let me show you, my darling. I want you to feel just how much I love you.”

More tendrils of light reach for him, pulling at his shirt and his trousers until he’s down to just his pants. They’re smooth and solid, slipping over his chest and tweaking at his nipples as his breath hitches. They wrap around him gently, tilting him back at a better angle, keeping him suspended even as they latch to his ankles, spreading him open. One of them strokes his chin, a gentle caress of the warmth of his lover. They start to poke at the waistband of his pants, a request for permission. A request to take and to have.

“Aziraphale, please,” Crowley whines as one of the tendrils rubs against his erection through his underwear. “I love you. Ruin me.”

“Oh my love,” Aziraphale chimes at him as another tendril grips and pulls his underwear down, exposing him to the air, precome already beading at the tip of his cock. “I’m going to give you everything.”

Aziraphale stands steady as the tendrils pet and caress Crowley’s skin, teasing at the tip of his cock and gliding across the underside of his balls. A particularly thin one starts to glide over his hole, just enough pressure to be noticed, but not enough to be insistent. They wrap around his chest and his throat, run light touches over his arms and legs. His breath is heavy with want as he writhes under their ministrations.

The thin one finally pushes in, breaching his entrance and opening him slowly. Another wraps around his cock, coiling around it and stroking slowly. The tendril itself undulates as it does, a mix of sensations that has Crowley’s back arching. The tendril at his arse thrusts in and out slowly before it shifts, becoming bigger and ridged. It pushes in greedily, ridges catching on Crowley’s rim, making him cry out in pleasure.

Aziraphale is everywhere, around him and inside of him, all Crowley can do is throw his head back and be taken in every way he’s ever wanted to be. The tendril in his arse thrusts in time with the strokes on his cock, hitting his prostate on every push, dragging back slowly off with every pull. There’s movement everywhere.The ones not occupied with fucking him squirm against his skin, rub against his face. Everywhere they touch is warmth and light. 

There’s a particularly hard thrust that Crowley feels, not only in his body, but brushing against his soul. Divinity and Grace catching on his impiety and wickedness in a wave of pleasure that racks through him as he screams.

“Darling…”

“Do that again, Aziraphale, don’t stop, please.”

The tendril thrusts in the same way again, sparks lighting along the darkness of Crowley’s internal being. The love and Grace of Aziraphale penetrate him to his core, far beyond any physical corporation. Their essences mingle with every stroke and thrust.It’s like the brush of a hand, but it’s like the twist of a wrist. It’s like a kiss to the forehead, but it’s like Aziraphale three fingers deep in him. Waves of gentle ruination that course through Crowley, down to his black and shriveled heart.

A second tendril pushes in next to the first and Crowley yowls, the stretch of them and the warmth of them pushing against his entire existence. They alternate thrusts, in and out, leaving him full to bursting, pushing in and coiling inside of him as they do. His skin starts to crack and shift, replaced with scales in patches along his neck, down his arms and across his feet. He feels his tongue shift and fork in his mouth, his corporation being pushed to its absolute limits.

And all he wants is more.

“Angel, Aziraphale, are these sensitive?” Crowley manages to gasp out, wanting to give pleasure as good as he’s getting, as his wrists and legs are pulled taut and the tendrils piston in and out of him. He’s painfully close, but another tendril has looped around the base of his cock, working like a ring to keep him on edge as the one stroking him quickens its pace.

“Yes, they are,” Aziraphale says on the clang of bells, a cacophony of out of sync chiming. “You feel so incredible, love, writhing on me like this, taking me like this. I can feel  _ everything _ .” 

Crowley flicks out his forked tongue, catching one of the tendrils stroking his cheek. It shivers under his tongue, sparks like poprocks on his taste buds. Crowley’s tongue elongates, wraps around it to pull it closer to his mouth.

“Oh,  _ Crowley _ , that’s —  _ ah! _ ” 

The thrusts become more erratic, a shiver racking through all of the tendrils as Crowley pulls the one into his mouth. He sucks at it, drool running out of the side of his mouth as he tries to convey his intent.

He wants Aziraphale to  _ ruin _ him.

“Crowley, I need to, can’t stop myself —  _ oh!”  _

The swirl of his tongue around the tendril in his mouth is all the permission Aziraphale needs, he thrusts into Crowley’s mouth, pushes to the back of his throat. The thrusts are quicker, punishing in their pace as Crowley is fucked in every direction he could imagine. He wiggles his wrists, feels the tendrils there slipping between his fingers as they rut against his hands. 

With every wriggle and every push, every pull and stroke, Crowley can feel his own soul shudder and spark like flame where Aziraphale’s is pressed against it, a quick and torturous drag of holy against unholy as Aziraphale surrounds him, within and without. The air rings with the sound of church bells as the white walls fade away, replaced by a void of darkness.

“I want to see you, darling, come for me,” Aziraphale whispers on a prayer as the tendril at the base of Crowley’s cock releases. Crowley comes with a shout, vision blacking out at the corners, as the void of the room explodes into stars—the stars he helped create. Aziraphale fucks him through it, pistons in and out of him in a punishing rhythm. The slick slide between his fingers speeds up, and the tendril in his mouth pushes in far enough to choke. Crowley is fucked out and overstimulated, only able to relax into the tendrils holding him up as Aziraphale chases his own pleasure in every way possible, from every direction he can.

The clatter of bells becomes deafening as the tendrils shudder in unison; the burn of white-hot light tears through Crowley’s body and is quickly replaced by the ice-cold of a snow storm, two warring sensations cancelling each other out and leaving pure pleasure in their wake. The duality pushes against his soul, against the darkest part of him, and before he can process what is happening his cock is immediately filling and then spilling out again.

The last thing he knows before the pocket dimension dissolves around him is that he is being wrapped in two strong and warm arms.

* * *

Crowley wakes sometime later, wrapped in black satin sheets. Aziraphale is there, petting his hair lazily; carding his fingers through it in what Crowley thinks may be the most soothing gesture he’s ever felt. He tries to chase sleep again, wants to stay in this limbo of a moment. But the soreness is insistent, and the sunlight is, too.

“Good morning, my dear.” Aziraphale’s voice is like ambrosia to Crowley’s ears. He huffs half of a reply and snuggles in closer. Aziraphale just chuckles and kisses the top of his head. Crowley sinks into the softness of him, the tickle of Aziraphale’s chest hair against his cheek, the gold of his stretch marks shining in the morning sun. He still can’t believe he gets to have this.

“How are you feeling, Crowley?”

“Worn out, thoroughly tossed about,” Crowley groans, nuzzling his face into Aziraphale’s chest, muffling the words. “Like I’ve had the best shag of my life.”

“Don’t be crass,” Aziraphale says, swatting him on the arm. “But…I’m glad you had fun.”

“And you? How was it?”

The air is suffused with a sudden warmth, the kind you get lying on the best rock in the sun, the kind from the hearth of a welcoming fireplace in the dreary cold. Crowley tilts his head up and Aziraphale is glowing, but making no effort to hide or to suppress it. “It was brilliant, Crowley. Thank you. For so very much.”

“S’no need to say thank you, angel, I told you.” Crowley stretches, feels the sting of the bruises left behind, the soreness of his arse and the burn in his throat. “Besides, it was so good for me I think I could sleep for a week.”

Aziraphale chuckles at him, “Darling, you already have.”

“Honestly? I’m not surprised. Gave me a real thwarting there, angel, you did,” Crowley says as he starts trailing kisses up Aziraphale’s chest.The angel sighs. What else should he do? He’s got a beautiful angel in his bed, all his and all to love. “Could be content with some much smaller thwarting.”

“Insatiable,” Aziraphale says on shaky breath as Crowley kisses up the line of his neck, turning his head this way and that, keeping his lips just out of reach of Crowley’s kisses.

“You love it,” Crowley growls out as he nips at Aziraphale’s ear.

“I love  _ you _ ,” Aziraphale says with a huff, finally allowing Crowley to capture his lips, his fingers tracing the path of Crowley’s spine as he holds him close. “Besides, it’s your turn next time.”

“My turn...?”

“Turnabout  _ is _ fair play, as they say. I showed you mine, so you can show me yours?”

Crowley makes a string of unintelligible noises as he burrows back into Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale just laughs and holds him tighter, wrapping him up in love and warmth. They stay that way for the rest of the day, entwined with each other on this and every plane of existence. Wings on the celestial plane wrapped around each other, safe and happy. 

Here, in the aftermath of all things, they have all the time in the world.

* * *

1 \- That happens when you have a snog in the coat check before getting to your table. But Crowley likes to think they can be forgiven this particular trespass, given the events of the past week.

  
  



End file.
